The Christmas Strike

“Well, you’re not likely to be flying into Willow Creek again anytime soon, are you?”

“Heaven forbid,” he grumbled.

“Then you’ll take me with you?”

He stood back and held out his arm toward the stairs. “After you,” he said.

The cockpit was to the right. It looked complicated and technical and interesting. I’d never known anyone who could fly a plane before. I started for the cockpit, fully intending to experience whatever I could.

“Turn left,” Cole Hudson ordered from behind me.

I was flooded with disappointment. “There are two seats up there and—”

“Ms. Blake, I agreed to take you with me. I didn’t agree to be your traveling companion. I prefer to fly solo and you did promise to sit in the back and be silent.”

“Fine,” I said shortly. “I’m sure it’ll be more pleasant that way, anyway.”

“Wise choice. Now sit down and strap yourself in. I’m behind schedule already.”

There were four chairs covered in black leather and a black leather sofa with small round tables at their sides. All were bolted to the floor. It was practically a flying living room. I sat down on one of the chairs. Nothing like flying business class, let me tell you. I sank into glove-like leather and discovered that the seat swiveled a full three hundred and sixty degrees. While I twirled, I noticed what looked like a small wet bar between the cockpit and the cabin. I hopped out of my seat to investigate. By the time I got there, Cole was blocking my way. His jacket smelled like worn, expensive leather.

“I thought I told you to buckle in,” he boomed.

“You haven’t even turned this thing on yet,” I pointed out. “I was just snooping. Looking for something to drink.”

His frown deepened. “This isn’t silence, Ms. Blake.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Look, you spoke to me first. I was merely being polite. Frankly, I’m also thirsty.”

He stepped aside. “Help yourself, by all means. Then kindly buckle in.”

I opened my mouth to say something and he put his finger to his lips.

“Shh.”

“Grouch,” I muttered to his back as he returned to the cockpit.

I opened the little refrigerator and found, among other things, small bottles of champagne. I grinned. Might as well start toasting the other members of the Prisoners of Willow Creek Enrichment Society in flight. After all, I was pretty sure that I was the first of us to ever fly in a private jet.

“Would you mind taking your seat back there,” Cole growled from the cockpit.

I quickly grabbed a bottle of champagne, located a crystal flute in a cabinet above the refrigerator then hightailed it back to my seat, strapping myself in for takeoff.

I could hear the crackle of the plane’s radio and the rumble of Cole’s voice, but not what he was saying. It was so unfair that I had to sit here, away from the action. It was akin to wasting the experience. Maybe after we were airborne and Cole was busy flying the plane I could sneak into the cockpit and grab the second seat before he noticed.

Finally, he started the engines. The louder they got, the harder my heart pumped. It was excitement, not fear. I had no way of knowing, but my guess was that Cole Hudson was an excellent pilot. He didn’t get to be a famous architect by being the kind of man who settled for mediocre in anything.

I swiveled my seat around as we started to taxi down the runway. “Goodbye, Willow Creek,” I whispered as we moved faster and faster. Then suddenly the plane gave a slight jerk and we were up and climbing.

And climbing.

It seemed to go on forever. I tried to relax and not white-knuckle the armrests. Breathe, I told myself. Every journey has to have a takeoff. When I felt calm enough to look out the window, it was as if we were traveling through cotton candy. Then the view cleared to a gorgeous blue and I was staring down on a floor of fluffy clouds.

Eventually, we leveled off. I popped the cork from the champagne bottle and filled the flute to the brim.

“To Jo and Iris,” I whispered, as I raised my glass. Maybe I was escaping for only a short while, but I was doing it on a private jet while drinking the most expensive thing I’d ever tasted. I drained my glass and poured myself another.

I woke up with a jolt. It took a few seconds for me to get my bearings. Oh, right. Private plane flown by famous architect. I scanned the view. We were descending. I must have slept all the way to Chicago. I stretched and grinned as I swiveled my chair full circle. So far, no signs of the city.

In fact, there wasn’t a sign of much of anything at all. And why was it so dark? We’d only been flying for thirty minutes, hadn’t we?

I could see a control tower ahead but unless we were a lot higher than I thought we were, it didn’t look very tall or imposing. And the runways, outlined by blue lights, didn’t look very long. Still, the control tower seemed to be the tallest thing around. Everything, including the terminal, looked flat and low—and dark. We couldn’t possibly be landing anywhere in Illinois. Where were the golden arches? The billboards? The neon of a gazillion franchises that lined every airport I’d ever seen?

With one final, gentle bounce, the plane landed. I unbuckled my seat belt and worked my way up to the front while the plane was still taxiing in.

I practically fell into the cockpit. “Where are we?”

Cole Hudson jerked his head around. “You should still be seated,” he said curtly.

He gave me a look of annoyance when I bumped his knee as I struggled to land in the copilot’s seat.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said before setting his mouth in a grim line.

“I know. But I’d like to see where I’m going, if you don’t mind. This doesn’t look like Chicago. Why is it so dark? How long have I been sleeping?”

“I’d say you’ve been sleeping for at least three hours.”

“Three hours! Where are we?”

The grim line of his mouth morphed into a small smile. “Welcome to Goose Bay, Labrador, Ms. Blake.”

I gasped. “Labrador? As in Canada?”

He glanced my way. “Someone did well in geography.”

“What are we doing here?”

“Refueling.”

Okay, refueling. That made sense. Sort of. “And then are you flying back to Chicago?” I asked hopefully.

“No, Ms. Blake. Then I’m flying to Iceland, where I will land and refuel once again.”

“And then back to Chicago?”

He looked at me, one of his dark eyebrows raised. “You think we’re out for a Sunday drive, Ms. Blake? I didn’t just burn up thirty-six hundred pounds of fuel to turn around and fly right back.”

The plane came to a stop and I heard the engines shutting down. Funny how I felt my stomach drop about the same time.